I'm a little claustrophobic, so the thought of being hurdled towards Mars, in a tiny cramped space, with frugal resources and the guarantee my last moments wouldn't be pleasant by any stretch of the imagination isn't the least bit appealing.

Years ago, a friend of mine drew a cartoon that I really wish he could find. It depicted a coverall-clad Russian with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a lighted match being held up in the other, an enormous grin on his face -- and he was standing underneath the bell of a rocket motor.

"I saw to what extent the people among whom I lived could be trusted as good neighbors and friends; that their friendship was for summer weather only; that they did not greatly propose to do right; that they were a distinct race from me by their prejudices and superstitions."